


We could be making sparks (but we just might explode)

by selflessbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (some parts will be smutty), Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, And everything will be updated once new characters and relationships are introduced..., Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friendship, Gryffindor!Bellamy, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, More parts will be added - Don't despair lmao, Sexual Tension, slytherin!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selflessbellamy/pseuds/selflessbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Hogwarts AU drabbles with Clarke and Bellamy as students in the two houses that through history have hated each other, but everyone knows that this is a revolutionary couple, because they refuse to play that game for long...</p><p>Him, because he as a rebel had always disliked the rules, and her because she would break them for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drabble #1: Even reparo can't fix your broken heart

As Miller rolls his eyes at him when he’s caught him looking over his shoulder at the Slytherin table for the hundredth time, Bellamy is forced to ground out that Clarke has absolutely nothing to do with it. It’s simply to send death glares towards Ontari. Earlier that day him and Miller had caught her bullying a Muggle-born Hufflepuff student, and as Miller had said before drawing his wand: “Nobody messes with the innocent dandelions and gets away with it.”

“Mate, don’t you realize that you keep looking towards her seat? The Princess, where is she?”

Turning his gaze down to his untouched plate of food, Bellamy huffs, but fails to keep the worry out of his voice when he replies: “I have no idea,” Miller looks very exasperated by this, which is not a shock. A Gryffindor worrying about a Slytherin is the same type of non-sense as a Goblin turning up to a wizard’s birthday, and Bellamy doesn’t really understand it himself. But somehow, his stomach is tying into a knot over the fact that the girl - who had been a pain in his ass since she became the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team last year, claiming the pitch like a true princess - is not at dinner.

Sure, it’s not all hatred. Sometimes it’s him brushing a piece of blonde hair behind her ear when she looks into his eyes for too long, and sometimes it’s her laughing at his ridiculous jokes in potions class, making everyone stare at her as if she’s swallowed a toad. And occasionally, something completely different happens, whenever she bites her lower lip in concentration in Transfiguration, causing his gaze to drop to her mouth, or that one time where she picked a leaf out of his messy hair because it was “distracting her”, and he barely had enough self-control to keep from pulling her closer as she ran her hand through it, her own blue eyes widening at the unexpected affection.

“Screw him or murder him, Griffin! Your choice!” Murphy had called from the other end of the bridge.

“Shut up, John!” Her face flushing, Clarke had stomped away, leaving Bellamy to knit his brows as the other boy passed him, but he hadn’t been able let it go, reaching out and pinning him against the side of the bridge.

“I’d be careful if I was you. I’d mind my own damn business, because if you happen to cross one more line, you might as well end up with a burned ass in the hospital wing.”

“And who’d send me there? _You_?” Murphy had snickered in disbelief, but a spark of fear could be seen in his eyes.

“No, her. But I can guarantee you, after she’s put you there, you are going to wish it had been me.”

Truth is, and he’s not afraid to admit it anymore, that she is a much better witch than he will ever be a wizard. She’s brilliant.

“Earth to Bellamy? Have you lost your damn mind? Did she bewitch it or something?” Waving a hand in front of his face, Miller knocks Bellamy back to reality - back to the sight of Clarke’s empty seat and the knot in his stomach that is almost making him nauseous. Perhaps she’s sick, and nobody’s brought dinner to the hospital wing. After all, she doesn’t have many Slytherin friends, her best friends being Raven from Ravenclaw and Harper from Hufflepuff. It takes him only a second of thought before he has stuffed his pockets with a wrapped sandwich and a crispy, red apple.

“See you in the common room, mate!” Nathan shouts after him, and even though Bellamy is convinced that his best friend doesn’t understand this weird exception to house-hatred, he is also certain that he hears laughter in his voice.

* * *

Yes, Bellamy expects her to be in the hospital wing, because she never misses dinner, and her being sick would be a logical explanation. So he heads in that direction, but finds her not far from The Great Hall, in the courtyard. As soon as he lays eyes on her, his heart breaks. Arms wrapped around herself, Clarke is barely holding up against the sobs that are tearing from her throat.

He has never seen her cry before, and he refuses to just stand there silently. Instead, he moves closer slowly, frown deepening with every step. At the sound, Clarke looks up, cheeks stained with tears, and when she notices him, twists her gaze away.

“Stay away, Bellamy,” her strained voice can barely form those words, which it pains him - an unexpected ache shooting through his chest.

But he doesn’t take orders from her, especially if she doesn’t mean them. “I won’t ask any questions, I promise.”

“O-Okay,” with that, she allows him to take her into his arms and pull his robe around her like a blanket as the coldness of her cheek seeps into his shoulder. After a minute, she stops crying, even if the sobs are still causing her to shake. Placing a kiss into the golden crown of her hair, Bellamy rubs her back to chase them off her spine, and she finally looks up at him, the ocean in her eyes filled with tears that she keeps suppressing. “Why are you-“ Her breath hitches, so he hugs her tighter until it slows and he can feel her eyes close, her face gently pressed against the soft material of his sweater.

* * *

Eventually, they end up in The Great Hall, sitting on their robes in front of the fireplace, ties taken off. All of the other students have returned to their common rooms for late night board games and chatting, so it is actually quiet for once.

“Were you looking for me?” Clarke’s words are almost a whisper, everything about her facial expression still heart-wrenchingly sad. Apart from that, the only thing Bellamy thinks is that he hopes that she doesn’t notice the blood that has rushed to his cheeks.

“You weren’t at dinner. I thought you might be sick…” Suddenly, his own words remind him of the food he snuck under his robe for her, so he reveals it and places it in front of her, making a mere shadow of a smile cross her lips.

Picking the apple up, she studies it for a pretty long while before looking at Bellamy apologetically and saying: “Sorry, but I’m just not hungry. I-“ Her voice cracks just when he senses the presence of someone behind them. Looking over his shoulder, Bellamy sees none other than the Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, carrying two cups of - judging by the sweet, mouth-watering smell - hot chocolate.

“Miss Griffin,” she starts, eyes sad. “Drink this. It helps better than words ever could right now.”

Oh no. Those same words burn in Bellamy’s mind still, even though six years had passed since he’d heard them. During his first year, his mother died in a car accident and he’d been called to the headmistress’ office, where McGonagall had told him that her old friend Albus Dumbledore was better at handling tragedy, and he’d advised her that hot chocolate healed more wounds than people could.

Clarke has lost someone.

Now directed at him, McGonagall’s words cause him to focus on her instead of Clarke: “Blake, please make sure that she _does_ drink it,” honestly, he’s about to tell her that he isn’t exactly the best advocate for that considering that he’d given his to the plant on her desk back then as soon as she’d left him alone.

Instead, when she has walked away, Bellamy places his warm hand over Clarke’s, and when she doesn’t pull away, he interlaces their fingers. Soon after, she speaks again, her voice fragile: “You know they all say that every bit of evil in the world has gone since Voldemort was killed? Well, that’s some next level bullshit…” Staring into the flames, Clarke can’t prevent the tears from falling once more. “They killed my father.”

Obviously, Bellamy doesn’t really know who ‘they’ are, but he has a clue. There is a reason why the subject of Defense Against The Dark Arts didn’t miraculously disappear with the death of Lord Voldemort. The evil in the world did not die with him, and now, it had taken a father from a seventeen-year-old girl. Although Clarke hadn’t told him much about her father, Bellamy knew that he was an Auror and from Gryffindor house.

He places a hand on her shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “I’m here if you need me.”

* * *

Bellamy brings her to the Gryffindor common room, and every protest from his housemates evaporate like smoke into air once their eyes fall on Clarke’s facial expression. Actually, as it turns out, the night ends with all of his friends trying to make her laugh, telling her all of the shitty jokes and embarrassing stories that they can think of. But the thing that makes it clear that none of his mates are going to use the “But she’s in _Slytherin,_ ” anymore is the fact that he wakes up next to Clarke on the couch the next morning, and nobody has drawn on his face with permanent marker.


	2. Drabble #2: Just keeping the peace (between the sheets)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke can no longer control the sexual tension that they're not supposed to have...

The two of them had been destined for hatred since one of those very first days, where she promised under her breath to hex him if he ever came near her with that stupid, boyish smirk and the nickname ‘princess’ ready to escape from where it sealed his mouth shut.

At first it was simply childish dislike that every teacher expected to evaporate over the years, but no such thing happened, because in their third year, Quidditch became involved, allowing the snickering and frequent eye-rolling to turn into a thirst for destroying each other on the field. Actually, some students now make quite a bit of profit from selling _Team Blake_ and _Team Griffin_ badges before games, and to Clarke’s happiness, Raven Reyes, the seeker from Ravenclaw, had come up to her earlier, sporting her emerald green badge: “I’m counting on you, Griffin.”

She is currently in her seventh year, and so is Bellamy, the boy she’d loathed from the very beginning, but sometimes she finds herself forgetting how she came to hate him. Was it purely the nickname, or perhaps the insufferable smug attitude? During the weekends, he likes to wear his Muggle clothes, so occasionally her eye catches him in a sweater or black jacket, and she is sadly never discreet enough: “See something you like, Griffin?” “Shove off, Blake.”

At other times, like this one, she pushes him up against a bookshelf in the library, placing the tip of her wand to a spot under his chin, and yet as her blue eyes narrow, his dark ones fill with amused sparks, his lips starting to curl upwards.

“Why the sudden outburst, Princess?”

“You keep doing it on purpose!”

“Doing what?” When his facial expression doesn’t change, it tells her that he knows _exactly_ what it is that annoys her. His fingers begin to toy with the edge of her rope, causing her frown to falter as lips part slightly. Feeling a blush creep into her cheeks, Clarke lowers her wand, to which he responds by gripping her waist, the warmth from his hands seeping through her clothes, and she nearly yelps at the sensation. Obviously, he is trying to distract her before the game just to the benefit of his own team - it must be so. Why would he want her anyway?

“I have a match to prepare for,” with that, she shoves him away and spins around on her heel, feeling more than tempted to shout ‘ _go fuck yourself’_ over her shoulder, but she doesn’t. Instead, she heads towards the pitch, trying in earnest to stop the memory of his hands against her spine from taking over her ability to think clearly.

* * *

To nobody’s surprise, the Quidditch match is brutal. Eyes locked for a little too long, Bellamy and Clarke shake hands before they take their positions, as captains are supposed to do. Madam Hooch knows from years of experience that someone is probably going to end up injured in one way or another, therefore Bellamy and Clarke promise to try and keep the game as clean as possible.

Perhaps this is why the fury runs in her veins as she sets her feet on the ground, with the sound of the flute and Gryffindor house cheering loudly from the stands in her ears. “Blake!” She calls while marching towards him, fists clenched along her sides, tongue in cheek. Suddenly, Jasper Jordan, the commentator, breathes an: “Uh-oh,” into the microphone, yet it doesn’t stop Clarke from bursting: “Your beater cost me my keeper! I thought we agreed to a fair game. Milgram won’t be out of the hospital wing until next week, and we-“

“What do we have here? A Slytherin ranting about what’s fair? Best thing I’ve seen all week. It’s Quidditch, Princess. Get over it.”

“Funnily enough you didn’t say that when you lost to Slytherin last term,” stepping closer to him, Clarke plasters a fake, sweet smile onto her lips. His brow doesn’t furrow until her nose is inches from his, but of course he doesn’t find it intimidating.

“When are you going to stop rubbing that in my face?”

“When you stop being such an insufferable idiot! I don’t need you to tell me about the rules, Blake. I just need you to shove your gloat back up your ass where it belongs! This-“

Placing his arms around her waist again, Bellamy cuts her off by pressing his lips to hers, the force of it is nearly bruising, earning a wave of shocked gasps from the stands. As she kisses back, the battle begins, and for a minute it is dominated by teeth grazing lips and tongues refusing to give up. It’s messy, but so are they, at least some of the time, because eventually, the need for oxygen begins to grow, forcing the pace of their kiss down to a level that is gentle, careful even, as he cups her face, pressing his lips to the spot on her nose where their noses just grazed each other. “I suspended him…” Bellamy murmurs, his breath ghosting over her chin. “The boy who directed the Bludger at Milgram. I don’t need _you_ to tell me about the rules,” to her horror, his lips are too close to her neck now, and Clarke knows that her mind will stop working at the moment they touch it, so she simply squeezes her eyes shut as she leans in, whispering to him: “Later.”

* * *

After that, her mind is pretty much useless to the point where she cannot turn a chicken egg into a hairpin in Transfiguration, and even McGonagall seems to understand with a small smile on her lips despite the fact that she is shaking her head in disappointment.

At dinner, Roma keeps kicking her under the table, because her eyes keep travelling towards the Gryffindor table. In the end, she finishes eating early, and as their gazes meet for the first time, she knows that this is their chance of escaping. Nodding at her slowly, he walks out of The Great Hall, and she follows him about five minutes after, knowing that people are probably suspicious anyway.

“Where do we go? The dungeons?” Clarke whispers, but Bellamy scrunches up his nose.

“No fucking way. I am not risking that. Too many things could go wrong.”

“What do you propose then? The forest?” Clarke asks him in disbelief, even though he is right about the fact that they need to be sneaky. Honestly, though, she’s not certain that she has the required patience for that now, as he stands incredibly close, dark eyes looking into hers with no hint of smugness or anger. For the first time, Bellamy’s eyes are simply… Soft.

“Merlin’s beard, Clarke. Have you ever heard of ‘The Room of Requirement’?”

“Yes, but I thought that room only appeared when– Oh, of course. Right, um, do you think it’ll work?”

“It’s worth a try,” smirking slightly, Bellamy shrugs and intertwines their fingers, which is an affectionate gesture that she never would have expected from him. Deep down, she knows that he’s way more than an arrogant ass, because she’s seen him walk countless of injured first year students to The Hospital Wing, and help them with their homework. He also threatened to hex Scorpius Malfoy for taunting Raven about her blood status, but she had handled it herself.

Maybe now she can she it because she really _wants_ to.

* * *

In The Room of Requirement is nothing except a huge king-sized bed and more candles than Clarke has seen in her lifetime, but she barely has time to take the that in before Bellamy has her pushed up against one of the walls, and clothes starts to fall, pooling at the ground in a mess of red, green, silver and gold. “I really frustrate the hell out of you, don’t I, Miss Griffin?” He asks as she pushes him towards the bed, both hands firmly placed on his chest. “Not for much longer.”

And she is right, because afterwards when they are lying together, her head resting on his chest, his pride has been swallowed officially, so that all he does is brush his fingertips gently through her hair and press kisses onto her forehead. “I still won the match,” of course, he has to try, yet she only smiles.

“Yes, but in reality, I think we both won _something_ today,” with that, she kisses him, drawing his body almost impossibly closer to hers. Bellamy laughs against her mouth, and even though it’s not the first time she has heard it, this is the first time that it is warm and real. It might be her new favorite sound.


	3. Drabble #3: Talk Muggle to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke accidentally walks in on Bellamy in a Quidditch changing room, but doesn't get what she wants until a year later...

A year ago, on the day of the last Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw Quidditch match, a faint, pink blush had colored Clarke’s cheeks; not because she was proud that her team was now in the finals - of course she was, but that sort of thing was hardly enough to make her flush. What could, however, was when she stumbled into the Gryffindor male changing room, knowing it was probably a really stupid idea, and caught the view of his bare chest. Although her mind screamed frantically at her, urging her to run off before he saw her, she couldn’t look away. Even as he glanced  up, Clarke’s eyes were glued to his abs and broad shoulders.

“What brings a Princess to the lion’s den?” Bellamy teased, knocking her gaze back up to his amused grin and the sparks that it had left in his dark, earth-colored eyes.

“I--uh, I came to congratulate you. You’re lucky that Ravenclaw didn’t beat your ass. Reyes is a fantastic seeker,” she added the sass to try to safe herself, thinking it worked for just one moment before she realized that she was biting her bottom lip as the blood rushed to her cheeks.

“That’s right. They have Reyes, but not me,” with a smile, Bellamy watched her as she rolled her eyes at that famous smugness that he never seemed to run out off. He was the Gryffindor keeper (which was a position that he was _perfectly_ built for) and proud captain, and even though she had equal experience in being Quidditch captain, she was a chaser.

“And why do you think you do your team any good with your sappy motivational speeches?” At that, he raised one eyebrow, his grin refusing to fade as he stepped closer to her with slow, confident steps that caused her to hold her breath and curse her mind for even thinking that it was an amazing idea to sass Bellamy Blake.

Once he was standing inches from her, he reached out to lightly touch her arm, his calloused fingertips brushing against the sleeve of her sweater, but it felt as if a flame had licked up her bare skin despite the thick layer of clothing. “Breathe, Clarke. Oxygen is important-“

“You’re not seriously about to motivate me to breathe, are you? Because if that’s the case, I’m out of here.”

“And that would really be a shame, considering how much you want to stay,” as he whispered that, his voice was different than she’d ever heard it; this time it had an edge that made heat coil in her lower belly. Wrapping his strong arms around her waist, Bellamy pulled Clarke closer, allowing her to trail a fingertip over the vein on his forearm. She fought to ignore her heart as it beat against her ribcage, knowing that she wasn’t supposed to think about him in this way, that he wasn’t supposed to have an impact on her besides making her blood boil, but she couldn’t help it. Especially not now that his lips lingered near her ear, causing his warm breath to brush past her hair: “You don’t know much about it, do you?” With that question, he pressed his lips to her pulse point, sucking the sensitive skin there gently. To prevent herself from whimpering at the sensation, Clarke grabbed the back of his shoulders and felt the warmth of his skin seep  into her much colder hands.

“About-- what?” Already overwhelmed, she barely managed to speak. What he replied didn’t help at all.

“Sex.”

The word stayed by her throat, onto which he had breathed it, creating a lump. “Are you trying to embarrass me?” She blurted out, her whole face heating up from either frustration or sheepishness. After a moment, Clarke could feel his smile disappear once he pulled his face from her skin to look into her eyes, brown gaze serious and _affectionate._ Just that was enough to knock all of the air from her lungs once more, but then he murmured, his voice insistent: “No. I’m trying to figure out why you’re shaking.”

“And I’m trying to figure out why you keep stalling.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded, absent-mindedly licking her lips, which she didn’t realize until he closed his eyes briefly, a strange noise emerging from the back of his throat and reached out to touch them with the pad of his thumb. Gathering courage, Clarke leaned a little closer, so that the tips of their noses grazed, their nervous breaths now mingling. A Muggle-born Gryffindor student shouldn’t ever stand this close to a full blood Slytherin. Logically, there should’ve been curses flying in the air or slurs or clenched fists ready to deliver punches. But Bellamy and Clarke certainly didn’t make sense, because he kissed her instead, and she let him.  

Let him search for sweet spots on her skin that made her sigh, like her jawline and the edge of her collarbone. Let him pull off her robe and emerald green tie slowly… Clarke’s heart raced in her chest, pounding against its cage, demanding release, which he must’ve felt, because seconds later, his thumb ran along an invisible trail right below her breast while his palm was placed on her heart.

As he snuck his hands beneath her Hogwarts sweater to explore the skin of her back, hers did the same, moving over his spine at a careful pace. But he still groaned into her neck at the touch, and their lips collided again, this kiss fueled by hunger. “Bellamy, please…” She begged, the heat of her skin now unbearable. Somehow, he knew exactly what she wanted, pulling the sweater off and allowing it to pool by their feet alongside her robe.

At the sight of the black, lacy bra he had exposed, Bellamy _growled,_ sending warmth through her body that ended as an ache between her legs. Her jaw slacked a tiny bit, causing his gaze on her to turn so passionate that she wondered whether he could look right through her. Then, he clashed their mouths together, to which she could only respond with: “Fuck, Bellamy.”

“Oh Princess, I love it when you talk Muggle to me.”

She laughed against his lips, but was abruptly cut off by the sound of someone banging on the door to the changing room. “Blake, get your ass to the common room! We _need_ to talk strategy. Tomorrow’s the bloody finals, mate!” It was the voice of Nathan’s Miller, the best beater on the Gryffindor team and Bellamy’s best friend.

“I’m a little busy in here, _Mate_!” Shouting that over Clarke’s shoulder, Bellamy began to play with the sipper of her pants, making her bite her lip to prevent herself from breathing hard and grinding against him in a way that would probably make him groan.

“Is that more important than Quidditch? Because then I have to see--“

“I’ll kill you if you even think about it, asshole. I’ll be there in a minute, I promise,” at those last words, Clarke’s heart sunk to the bottom of her chest.

“You better be!”

When they had listened to the sound of Miller’s footsteps disappearing as he walked away, Bellamy pressed his lips to her forehead, making her fight tears of disappointment. She knew it was over, because he’d made a choice, even if his eyes told her how much he hated that fact.

She watched him put his sweater and robe on, adjust his tie and hair before he stepped towards her again. “Clarke… I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“And what makes you think that I’d want you after this?” Although she tried, it was impossible to keep the disappointment and tears out of her voice. Frowning, he nodded, unable to return her gaze for long.

* * *

 

She never stops wanting him, though. Not after Gryffindor beats Slytherin in the finals, winning the cup that year, and he grins proudly at the crowd but frowns as he looks back at her, forcing her to turn her attention to the dirty grass beneath her boots.

Not after Monroe spills that he is the one who has made her put chocolate frogs on her pillow every Friday for eight months. Or when they both become prefects at the beginning of their seventh year and they get caught in the rain trying to help first years inside the castle - they start yelling at each other while their clothes soak, continue until she screams, begging him to leave her alone.

But he doesn’t, not really, because she has to live with the feeling of his lips against her neck burning in the back of her mind during History of Magic classes and that of his hands on her back every time she walks away from the pitch, passing by the changing rooms.

And she sure as hell doesn’t leave him alone. Hates herself for always trying to pick fights with him just so that he talks to her, because her heart won’t be able to handle a normal conversation. But one day, it ends, when he pushes her up against a bookshelf in the library, cradling the back of her head to protect it from potential sharp edges. “Look, Princess,” he almost snarls, “I have spent the last year trying to figure out why the hell you’re so fucking angry around me all the time. Then I realized that it’s because we didn’t have sex - because I left you with nothing. But in the end, you know that you couldn’t possibly want _me._ ”

“Bellamy…”

“I’m not good enough for you!” In a lot of ways, Bellamy is an angry man, but he hasn’t exploded around her for months. However, it is not the outburst that shocks her the most, it is what he says. “I’m not,” is the continuation, voice almost cracking at the end, but she shakes her head, gaze turning soft, then she kisses him. Although he makes a surprised noise, Bellamy doesn’t break away. For a while it seems as if he is going to, but she brings her hand to his dark, curly hair and he finally responds, coaxing her lips apart with the tip of his tongue while wrapping an arm firmly around her waist.

Hands shaking a little from the kiss, Clarke unties his robe, which he lets fall to the floor. “You’re a great person, Bellamy. And that is _all_ that I care about,” she breathes whilst he nibbles on the skin below her jaw. “In the end, you walked away because you thought I didn’t-- Bellamy, I have never wanted anyone so much.”

Eyes wide, he pulls away for a second, and he continues to stare as she fumbles with his belt and sweater at the same time - laughs into her mouth when she finally succeeds in pulling the sweater off with one hand. “You really wanna do this here?”

Clarke raises her eyebrows, grinning mischievously. “Of course.”

As her lips wander along the skin of his chest, Clarke can’t help but think about how lucky they are that there are very few students in the library just fifteen minutes after dinner, and that old Mr. Filch’s hearing is not what it has been. Bellamy convinces her to keep some of her clothes on, though, because it’s better to be safe than sorry, so he just takes off her robe, pants and tie, leaving her in a white shirt that he unbuttons all the way, so that he can see her bra, even if he chooses not to remove it.

His hands move underneath the shirt, resting on her ribs as he kisses her confidently. It’s only when he whispers some non-sense into her collarbone that she can tell that he’s nervous. Closing her eyes as his hands run up her spine, Clarke asks him to repeat what he said. He meets her eyes then, and once more, his are serious. “It might hurt,” he warns her, and acts like a protective boyfriend for at least five minutes before she loses her patience and tells him to fuck her.

“How many dirty muggle movies have you seen, Princess?” He laughs until she digs her heels into his lower back.

* * *

 

It doesn’t hurt. Not really. Not with him, because he kisses her skin to distract her a little - swallows every sound she makes by pressing his lips to hers. For years, he has been a walking distraction, and she hated how she wasn’t capable of focusing when he was around, but now he clears her thoughts, which is quite possibly the most deliberating thing she has ever experienced.

“Are you okay?” He breathes, putting her down, and the affection in his voice causes her heart to swell and her lips to spread to a grin. As he smiles back, she reaches out, trying to fix his hair, but it’s pretty much hopeless after how much she’s pulled at it. “Sorry…” Clarke murmurs, yet he only kisses her cheek, chuckling.

For a moment, it seems as if they don’t have to hurry, but then they hear the familiar sound of Mr. Filch’s feet dragging across the library floors, so they dress in a rush and put their ties in their pockets, because they sure as hell haven’t got the hour that it takes to fix those.

* * *

 

Clarke steps through the portrait hole and into the Slytherin common room, trying to battle her own grin. Absent-mindedly, she reaches into her pocket, pulls the tie out and slings it across her shoulders. From where she is sitting on one of the dark, leather couches, Ontari narrows her eyes, which puzzles Clarke for a moment in which she can only mirror the stare, but then the other girl asks, her voice full of suspicion: “Why are you wearing a Gryffindor tie?”

Immediately, Clarke looks down, noticing that _shit,_ she’s wearing Bellamy’s gold and red tie instead of her own. Then, Bellamy must be wearing hers, and the mere thought of that almost makes her blush, yet she fights the reaction, sensing Murphy’s stare on her as well. “You screwed him, didn’t you?” The pale boy exclaims, grinning scornfully. “Blake?”

“That’s none of your business,” Clarke tries, yet Ontari is quick to ignore it: “Can’t say I’m surprised. You were never fit to be a Slytherin anyway, and now you’ve only proved that by screwing a mud--“ In seconds, Clarke has drawn her wand and grabbed the fabric of Ontari’s sweater, forcing the girl to meet her furious gaze.  

“If you as much as whisper that disgusting word, I will personally hex your skin to make it pimple for months, got it? Nothing you will ever say will make me feel ashamed about him. In fact, it will only make me prouder. Because I know that you will never find a partner who is half as wonderful or half as handsome as he is, and that you’ll have your narrow, stupid mind to thank for it.”

They meet in the middle of the hall an hour later, both grinning wide. Proudly, Bellamy pulls her into a passionate kiss with her green and silver tie that he has around his shoulders. Although she senses more than a few students stop to gape at them, Clarke doesn’t feel a bit of embarrassment, only wrapping her arms around the back of his neck, playing with some of the dark, messy curls there…


End file.
